


All We See

by backtopluto



Series: mcyt american revolution au [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: 18th century diseases, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Blood and Violence, Drowning, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29053272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backtopluto/pseuds/backtopluto
Summary: Dream is certain George can feel his pounding pulse through his hands. He wonders if the intimacy is choking him just as it is him, if it’s tearing him apart just the same. The slow spit of love between them burns. He thinks they should meet in another life. Dream would find him across centuries.Or; the five times Dream worries about George, and the one time George worries about him.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: mcyt american revolution au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131512
Comments: 56
Kudos: 381





	All We See

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the first work in this series I highly suggest it or else a lot of this won't make sense! Also please check the tags

**Winter, 1778**

  


**1.**

  
Life on the frontier was not easy. It was everything Dream had anticipated and everything he had not. It was the setting sun, brutal cold, hunger and calluses. It was blood and land beyond man’s fragile covenants. It was the ragged edge of the western world, dropping into limitless trees and unknowable nothingness. He thought if he walked far enough, he would find another ocean, one both so similar and so unlike the one he knew. 

Yes, the frontier was tough. It was brutal, and served as brittle symbolism for their own nugatory existence. But it was also George’s hand in his, and a crackling fire, and George throwing careless snowballs at him, giggling at the way the snow splattered across Dream’s broad shoulders. 

The frontier was limitless, a beacon of freedom that people like them could find nowhere else in the world. At the fringe of the known world, they didn’t have to worry about wandering eyes. Dream could kiss George senseless at high noon if he so desired, and nobody was there to judge. 

It’s been a month since they left Nikki’s, they had only stayed for a handful of days before setting off once again. They left Patches and promised to visit soon. 

They invested in traps, warmer clothing, musketballs, and gunpowder. They harbored a vague plan to travel as fur trappers, stopping only for a day or so in trading towns before disappearing into the woods once more. Dream drew on the knowledge he had acquired while crossing the colonies after leaving Florida, knowledge which probably kept them from dying of starvation and poison on multiple occasions. Day by day, he remembered things he thought he had forgotten, like how to find a rabbit burrow or set-up a beaver trap. 

George on the other hand, had spent the vast majority of his life in London. Being in the wilderness for him was like being a fish on land. Although they never spoke about it, Dream could tell that the silence of the woods at times made him uncomfortable, that the sheer vastness of it sometimes went to his head. 

But George never complained, and he learned quickly. Dream taught him how to set traps and how to skin a rabbit. He taught him how to build a bed of pine needles and start a fire with wet wood. Dream taught him to get out of a tree bank, and George proved to be an incredible shot with a musket. He could hit a rabbit or a bird point-blank through the eye from fifty feet away. Dream had no idea how he did it, but it left him breathless every time. 

Granted, for all his careful instruction and the way George soaked it all up like a sponge, Dream still found himself reluctant to let George out of his sight. There was a gnawing fear that they both felt, an ever-present anxiety for the other. After being seperated so many times, and seeing the other in grave danger just as much, neither was keen to let the other go. 

“We should stop.” Dream says, neck craned back to look at the descending sun hovering over the tops of the pine trees. The day had been pleasantly warm, warm enough that he had even seen snow melting in places and water dripping off icicles. 

George looks towards the sun and nods. “Yeah. Do you want to set up camp and I’ll look around? Make sure we’re not within half a mile of another british regiment.” 

Dream shudders at the memory. That had been a bad night. “You stay here and set up camp. I’ll look around.” 

“Dream, you’ve been hauling that sled all day.” He gestures towards the wooden sled on the ground, piled high with furs ready to be traded and sewn into hats, cloaks, gloves, and whatever else rich people need. “Let me go. I’ll just be a few minutes.” 

Cold anxiety crawls up his throat, and he reaches out wordlessly for George’s hands. He knew he would have to learn to get over this dumb fear, this crippling consetertation for George’s safety, but he doubts he will ever truly let go of it. He rubs the back of George’s gloved hands, ignoring George’s eyeroll. 

“I’ll be careful, okay?” He says, gently moving his hands towards Dream’s face to cup his cheeks. Dream bends down and George kisses his forehead. Warmth spreads from the spot where he kissed him, and Dream smiles despite himself. 

“Twenty minutes?” He asks. 

“Twenty minutes.” George agrees, pulling away and setting his bag down on the sled. It lands with a thump atop the pile of furs and Dream watches him go, leaving only a trail of footprints in his wake. 

Dream busies himself with setting up a fire before it gets dark, doing his best to keep his mind off George. He reminds himself that George is more than capable of taking care of himself, he has proven that many times. However, the thought doesn't do much to settle his fears he thinks, as he packs down a circle of snow. 

He worries that George will come across a bear. It’s an irrational fear, especially considering that bears are rare this time of year, but it’s a fear nonetheless. He worries about wolves and badgers. But mostly, he worries that they aren’t alone out here. 

Dream tears a strip of bark from a tree. He had gotten better at starting fires, through a combination of trial and error and many frigid nights. It only takes him a few minutes to get one going, and then he spends the rest of his time gathering kindling, ears trained for any sounds of George. It’s a good thing he was paying so close attention, otherwise he fears he never would have heard the shout. 

It was faint and distant, but also sharp as the snap of a whip. Dream runs towards the sound without thought, heart in his throat. His left leg sinks deep into the snow, almost up to his waist. With gritted teeth he yanks it out, rushing through the woods towards the sound. The cold stings his lungs, the shadows growing with the setting sun. 

There is a horrid cracking sound, a splintering that reminds him of the Schuylkill outside Valley Forge. He recalls how it used to crack at night, the ice shifting and groaning until it settled. It used to do that after a day that was not as brutally cold as the others. Fear, cold as a winter wind, grips him. 

The cracking sound grows louder until he finds himself stumbling to a stop at the edge of a massive lake. The only indication that there was a lake at all was that there were no trees, and in the distance he could see grey ice sparkling under the sun. On it he could see George, evidently peralyzed with fear as he watched the cracks spread beneath his feet. 

“George!” Dream cries, voice breaking like the ice. George turns to look at him, face pale. Then he isn’t there at all. 

Dream can’t remember the last time he had felt like this. Perhaps it was when the noose was pulled over George’s neck, or when the trapdoor fell and for a brief moment he worried he wouldn’t be able to catch him. He sheds his heavier coat and furs, feet slipping on snow and ice. He runs without thought, without care. They had been through so much. They deserved a fucking break. 

George is clinging to the edge of the ice, trying to get himself out of the water. But his heavy clothes are weighing him down and on top of everything, Dream knows he never learned to swim. His pale hands are laid flat against the grey ice, searching for traction and finding none. The black water reaches past his ears. Just as Dream is skidding to a stop, the current sucks him under. 

He hates that the universe proved him right for having a reason to be worried. He was sick of George slipping away from him, of the world trying to yank them apart. It was a vicious, sickening cycle. Everytime Dream thought they were encroaching on something that resembled stability it was ripped away from them, leaving their hands raw and bloody. Perhaps it was the nature of their times, and Dream wishes he’d been born later. 

He plunges his hand into the abyss. The water is so cold that the muscles in his arm seize, knocking the breath from his lungs. Dream grits his teeth, and pushes forward. His hand grabs a piece of wet fabric, his heart jumping at the contact. With a grunt, he yanks it back and George’s head surfaces from the water. 

Dream’s hand is on George’s arm, and he quickly adjusts his grip to fit under both of George’s arms. With a great tug and screaming muscles, Dream drags him out of the water and onto the blue ice. 

He turns George onto his stomach, and hits him hard between the shoulders to dispel the water in his lungs. George coughs as the icy water leaves his system, gasping for breath. With shaking hands, Dream pulls him to his chest. His fingers slip through George’s wet hair, both of their breaths form white clouds in the winter air. 

George coughs a few more times into Dream’s shoulder as he rubs his back. George is drenched with freezing water, soaked as a dog. Dream’s arms have already gone numb from where he plunged them into the lake. He can hardly feel George gripping them. It frightens him, and he tightens his ohold. 

“You idiot.” Dream mumbles, gripping George harder as he begins to shake. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” 

George buries his head face into the fur pelt over Dream’s shoulders. “Sorry.” 

Dream takes another moment to remind himself that George is here, in his arms and not under the ice. He doubts he will ever be able to rid himself of the image of George’s head disappearing under the water, the final breath he took before he went under. He pulls George even closer before he leans them back. He looks over George’s flushed face, still dripping with water. 

Dream swallows. “Can you walk? We need to get off the ice.” 

George’s eyes flicker over Dream’s face before he nods, and they stand up together. They carefully walk on the more stable ice that they had already crossed, both breathing a sigh of relief when the ice turns to snow and then into trees. George clings to him, legs unsure and unsteady. He shakes violently from the cold and Dream steers them towards the crackling fire. 

“I’m sorry.” George whispers again, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

“We’re alright.” Dream replies, helping George out of his wet clothes. Between them, they only have one extra set of clothes. “We’re gonna be alright.” 

“I-” 

“Shh.” Dream whispers, helping him into the new shirt. “Save your energy.” 

He sets out the wet clothes near the fire, and covers George with their furs. He looks small beneath all of them, shivering violently as the sky darkens. Dream pulls him into his arms, presses a kiss into his hair that was drying into ice. George curls into him, breath warm on Dream’s neck. He tries not to cry as he looks up at the first stars, flickering like embers against the dark skin of the night. 

  
**2.**

  
They make less mistakes as the months wear on. Winter bleeds into a bitter spring, the ground stained with blood left behind in the snow. Animals emerge from hibernation, and their pockets are soon heavy with coins. They learn how to track better, George doesn't walk out on ice, and they learn who they can trust. The last lesson comes only after another fatal mistake. 

Without the relentless cold, they relax slightly. They grow comfortable in their new lifestyle. George no longer has fits of panic about the silence and lack of people, and Dream stops worrying about George running into a bear. They learn how to cover their own tracks, made easier by the lack of snow. George ladles out affection more than ever, pulling Dream closer just as much as he pulls George. At times it gives Dream whiplash when he thinks too much about how things were like when they first met. He supposes it’s all circumstance. 

It is early morning, and when Dream wakes he is surprised to find George already up. On any given day he had to drag George into consciousness, but today George is sat and hunched forward over a map. His eyes squint to read it in the low morning light, his finger tracing over lines. The map had been expensive, a rare find. It was hand drawn by a local, with trails and bridges and trading posts carefully marked. 

“George?” Dream mumbles, voice groggy and thick with sleep. He turns towards George, who wordlessly runs his hand through his hair. It had grown long, longer than he normally kept it. George seemed to like it though. 

“Go back to sleep, Dream.” 

Dream frowns. “Why?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Because you never sleep.” 

Dream sits up instead, pushing his hair from his face. “What are you looking at?” 

George sighs, but doesn't try to convince him to go back to bed. He shifts so he’s facing more towards him. He holds out the map, tracing a line across a stretch of wilderness. “I’m thinking we go here next.” 

Dream frowns, pulling the map closer. “That’s near the Proclamation Line, George. We shouldn’t push our luck. It’s well-guarded, and we don’t want to intrude on Native lands.” 

“We’re not gonna cross the Proclamation line. I just figured there would be more furs in an untouched swath of land.” 

Dream hums. “We’ll think about it. We have to trade the ones we have now, first.” 

George rolls up the map and tucks it away safely. He leans back to lay his head on Dream’s stomach, gazing out at the trees thoughtfully. Small patches of snow still cling to the ground beneath trees, and in the valleys and shadows that the sun never reaches. 

George tilts his head back, his head rising and falling with Dream’s breaths. A wave of fondness falls over Dream as George looks towards the sky. He could stay in this moment forever and ever. He wants to bottle it up, return to it at a later date. 

Distantly, a bird calls out over the trees and another bird answers. A moment later two birds flash through the pink sky, gone as quick as they came. 

“It’s like there’s no war.” George says, watching the birds go. “No poverty or disease or hatred. Just trees and the natural way of things.” 

“Mmh. It’s also cold and unsanitary and easy to get lost.” 

George reaches up to flick his nose. “Always the optimist you are.” 

“It’s my natural enticement.” 

“You’re actually rather ugly.” He giggles. 

Dream rolls his eyes. “I apologize you had to settle for colonist ruff such as myself.” 

George smiles, opening his mouth to add what is certainly another witty comment to the conversation, when the sound of a stick breaking stops them both. 

Dream is on his feet in moments, George reaching for the nearest musket. The mood is entirely shattered, both of them squinting at the woods and listening carefully. There is an unmistakable sound of footsteps and Dream tenses like a bird prepared to take flight. He takes a step forward so that he is in front of George, placing himself between him and the noise. Dream’s eyes flicker to their campfire, only spitting out a few haggard sparks. Perhaps they had grown too comfortable out here. Smoke wafts into the morning sky. 

A man emerges at the edge of the woods. He is monstrously large, perhaps as tall as Dream. He is covered in furs, his hair long and wild, face unshaven. He looks as if he were born from the womb of the earth, raised and bred to live off the land. A hatchet is slung over his back, and he considers each of them in turn, his eyes lingering on George. A flicker of a smile crosses his face, gone as soon as it came. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“State your purpose.” George says crisply, in that same tone Dream remembers he used only when addressing someone as a soldier. He was hoping he’d never have to hear it again. 

“You.” The man jabs a finger at George. “You are British.” 

Yeah, that didn’t sound promising. Dream takes another step forward and rises to his full height. “I suggest you continue on your way.” 

The man finally looks at Dream His eyes are harsh and blue, like winter ice. He steps closer and George’s hands tighten on the musket. The man spreads his hands out placatingly, showing them to be empty. As he comes closer, Dream can see that his face and hands are marked with smallpox scars, ones that look to only be a few months old. 

“I recognize you.” The man says, frowning at Dream. “Were you at Valley Forge?” 

Dream’s eyes widen in surprise. He glances back at George, who looks just as incredulous as him. Thirteen-thousand men at Valley Forge and this man somehow recognizes him? 

“You served under General Techno? With the light dragoons?” 

“Yes.” He speaks slowly, the early morning wind ruffling his hair. “Shouldn’t you still be in Valley Forge?” 

“See, I could ask you the same question and I don’t think that’s something you want to tell a stranger.” His eyes flicker back to George before returning to Dream. Dream tenses once more, jaw tight. This man knew something. 

“I think I was well acquainted with some of the men you knew before you left.” He pauses, thinking. “Sam? Do you know Sam?” 

Dream had barely spoken ten words to Sam but he nods nonetheless. The man continues on. “And a young fellow named Karl? He was always with that other man, had a bit of a strange name.” 

Dream spares another look with George. “Sapnap?” 

The man snaps his fingers, eyes bright. “Yes! That’s the one. We slept near each other in the med tents.” 

Dream’s stomach falls out from under him, as if the ground had split open and swallowed him whole. He remembered the med tents and his own stubborn refusal to go to one despite his pneumonia. He recalls them as being nothing more than a breeding ground of disease, where so-called doctors hacked off frost-bitten limbs with rusty saws. The med tents served as little more than a place for men to wait to die. The thought of Sapnap needing to stay in one made bile rise in Dream’s throat. Sapnap, who had always seemed immune from the petty diseases that felled the rest of them. 

“Why was he in a med tent?” Dream frowns, ignoring the feeling of George’s eyes on his neck. 

“Smallpox, like the rest of us.” The man says, waving a hand as if it wasn't a big deal. “He and I were lucky. We were both inoculated.” 

“Inoculated?” George asks. 

“We were both exposed to the virus through a cut given by a doctor. We still caught it, but it didn’t kill us.” 

Dream swallows, gaze lingering on the scars covering the man. He had no reason to doubt the man, the story seemed difficult to fake. He turns toward George who frowns at Dream for turning his back to the stranger. 

Dream whispers, “I think we can trust him.” 

“I thought we learned not to trust anybody out here.” He hisses back. 

“But he knew Sapnap.” He insists, voice low. “And those smallpox scars look recent. He knew of Techno, Karl, and Sam.” 

“Does he look like a man we should trust? He looks like a fucking viking.” 

“And I don’t?” 

George narrows his eyes. “I don’t want him following us. Being with us.” 

Dream’s gaze softens slightly, the way it only does for George. “We’ll be careful, okay? Maybe he’ll help us out. It will only be for a few days.”

George’s voice has an edge to it. “Dream.” 

“Come on! He’s a patriot.” 

“Who left!” 

“So did I!” 

George scowls. “You had your reasons. He has not given us his.” 

“You weren’t at Valley Forge. You wouldn’t understand.” Dream says. George narrows his eyes at him, and Dream tries to ignore the way his stomach curls unpleasantly at the sight of George mad at him. 

“Just for today. I’m sure he’ll be on his way soon.” Dream insists. He doesn't really know why he wants the man to stay with them. Perhaps he was desperate for news of the outside world, or rather for news of Sapnap and the others. He had been completely cut-off from them since January when they rescued George. He had no idea what happened to them. 

George looks beyond Dream’s shoulders at the man, who was staring at a magpie perched on a tree branch. George sighs, rubbing his temples. “Fine. But only for today.” 

  
One day turns into three. The man, who never gives up his name, shows them how to set more effective traps, gives them the name of a merchant who will buy for good prices, and another merchant who will sell for cheap. He shows them a more effective way to boil water, and he tells Dream about what happened to the Continental Army since they had left. He speaks of the French and Prussians, about how a Prussian general left Europe on sodomy charges and came to the new world to whip the army into shape. He tells Dream about Sapnap and Techno, about Karl and Sam. He was a man born in the wilderness, who knew the secrets of the land and shared them with George and Dream willingly, like a merchant handing out wares for free. 

Dream was careful to sit far from George. He did not reach out for his hand, and George did not lean into his side like always. They did not sleep side by side, not when the stranger was just across the fire. They don’t say I love you when the stranger is there. 

Dream aches. 

On the fourth day, Dream finds that they are low on food. With the extra mouth to feed, the game they had caught had disappeared quickly. Lips pursed, Dream announces that he is going out to get food. 

George grabs his arm as Dream is packing, carefully filling his cartridge pouch with gunpowder. Dream startles at the contact, and realizes George hasn’t touched him in days. 

“Let me come.” George whispers lowly, the stranger watching them curiously. “He makes me nervous.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” Dream says, and he means it. He never meant for the stranger to stay this long, but if they wanted to make it on the frontier they had to build connections. As of this moment, they had none. “I’ll tell him to leave when I return.” 

“Let me come.” George repeats. 

“If we both go then he’ll come too. Or he’ll steal our things.” Dream replies, although he isn’t sure he wants to leave George alone. He shakes his head. If the man wanted to hurt them, he would have done so already. He had given them no reason to be distrustful. 

“I’ll be quick.” Dream assures, squeezing George’s hand between them where the stranger can’t see before letting go. His hand burns at the lack of contact. 

“Promise?” 

Dream shouldn’t go. “Promise.” 

His back burns from where George watches as he slips into the trees. The stranger says nothing as he goes, but the hairs on the back of Dream’s arms stand on end. Uneasiness settles like a turbulent sea in his gut as he moves through the woods. He leaves footprints in the lingering snow, but his motions are quiet. He moves like a wraith, a shadow amongst the trees. Without George at his side he moves quicker, but he feels exposed. Raw and cut open without his other half. His other half whom he left with a stranger. 

He shoots a rabbit. The shot isn’t clean like George’s would be. It goes through the rabbit’s back instead of it’s eye. Dream has to shoot it again. 

Half an hour later, he manages to shoot another rabbit, and he apologizes mentally towards George, both of them already sick of rabbit. This shot is even messier than the last, going straight through its stomach. Guilt makes his skin burn as he slings the second rabbit over his shoulder. George would make a terrible joke about Dream wanting the poor thing to suffer. 

Dream heads back towards the camp, his heart beating wildly. Deep down, he knows he shouldn’t have left. 

Sapnap used to say that Dream had a sixth sense for danger, and overtime he had learned to trust his gut. It was usually right. 

His footsteps quicken when he hears a shout, and he breaks into a sprint at the sharp sound of a musket firing, shattering the quiet like a crack of lightning. He abandons all previous reservations, and it’s like the lake. He should have learned the first time. Should have learned the last several times not to leave George alone. Not in this untamed land, not in the world they live in. 

He finds George with a knife at his throat, the stranger towering behind him. George’s neck is craned, his breaths heavy. His tricorn lays forgotten on the dirty ground. The camp is in disarray, their things scattered and the fire out. George is covered in dirt, the scent of gunpowder lingering in the air. The stranger bleeds from a wound in his shoulder and another in his calf. Dream stops in his tracks, his eyes meeting George’s. 

The stranger scowls. “You weren’t supposed to be back yet.” 

Dream uncocks the musket, aiming at the man’s head. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m not sure if you’re aware.” The stranger says, and his voice is unmistakably British. How neither of them realized his colonial accent was fake is a miracle. “But your friend here is one of the most wanted men in the western hemisphere.” 

Dream’s jaw tightens. “You’re a bounty hunter.” 

“They said you were clever.” The man sneers, pressing the knife closer against George’s exposed throat. “But you chose the losing side of this war. You trusted the first person you came across in these woods.” A bead of blood leaks from his neck. “You’re a fool.” 

Dream’s knuckles are white against the musket, his eyes dark beneath the brim of his hat. 

“Do you know how much this man is worth?” The man sneers. “Guess.” 

Dream knows what George is worth. An uncountable figure. He does not need this man to tell him so. Dream had been a fool, and it fell on George’s shoulders. Just as it always did. 

“I do not know.” Dream says, stepping forward carefully. The man steps back, dragging George with him. “But I will tell you he is worth more than every blessed thing God has granted us.” 

“Put the musket down.” 

“I will parade your body through the streets of New York, just as Achilles did Hector. They will not know the name of your corpse.” 

The man’s eyes widen a fraction, evidently not having expected Dream to paint such an ugly image of his demise. “You think yourself a descendant of the Gods?” 

“What will you do with me?” Dream counters, brushing aside the question. “It is George you want. But you cannot kill me while you hold him.” 

“You will let us go.” The stranger takes a few steps back, George haltingly following. “You will let us go and I will not kill your companion.” 

“That will not stop me from killing you.” Dream makes a show of setting his finger against the trigger. “Fight me now and you will be on your way.” 

The man’s eyes burn with anger, cold and calculating. Another drop of blood slips down George’s throat, leaving a bloody trail in its wake. His grip on George is bruising, his knuckles white against the knife. All Dream can hear is the blood rushing through his own ears, eyes zeroed in on the place where the knife meets skin. 

The man flexes his fingers on the knife. “Drop the musket. Make it fair.” 

Dream tosses the musket, pulling out a knife in the same even movement. George makes a disapproving sound in the back of his throat. The stranger smiles, throwing George towards the side. Dream grins back. He had the audacity to call him the fool. 

The man barely gets five steps before the crack of a gun shakes apart the woods. Dream flinches involuntarily, but the shot is not aimed for him. The stranger falls, in that horrible, doll-like fashion that comes with death, hitting the forest floor with a thud. Behind him sits George, musket smoking in his hands. 

Dream smiles. George never misses. 

George’s hand rubs at his throat, dropping the musket. His breathing is uneven as Dream rushes over, running his hands over his arms and back, taking George’s hands into his own. He presses a kiss to the back of one of them, ignoring the gloves. 

“I shouldn’t have left.” 

George looks at him. All the birds have left, startled by the gunshots. The sky is dark and grey, the sun swallowed raw by the ocean of clouds. 

“Did you get food?” Is all George asks. 

Dream laughs despite himself, although the sound is hallowed and dry. He sniffles, nodding as he rubs his nose. He shows George the rabbits, and he scrunches his nose up at the sight. Neither seemed to want to talk about the man. Dream respects it.

“Did you want them to suffer?” He jokes. 

“I’m not as good a shot as you.” 

“Obviously.” 

Dream rubs the corner of his eyes, pushing back the tears he finds. “Maybe next time you can do it.” 

George smiles, pushing back Dream’s hands and wiping away the tears himself. Dream can’t believe he left. Can’t imagine that there is any world where he is deserving of George, and yet here is, pushing back his tears with steady hands while Dream’s shake. 

They don’t speak of the incident again. 

  
**3.**

  
Dream has never been more grateful for spring than he is that year. By April, the sun has pushed the snow back into the soil and left behind green grass and budding trees. Hibernating animals emerge from their dens, and soon they have more furs then they know what to do with. 

Dream melts in the spring. He melts in the way George unwinds, and together they watch the ice thaw from the lakes and streams. They watch the flowers bud and blossom, and Dream realizes that this is their first spring together. 

Now, they stand together in an alleyway of a remote trading town along the Hudson. George is counting out the money of their recent trades while Dream stands guard. He listens to George quietly counting under his breath and smiles, watching as someone not so subtly steals the pocket change from a well-dressed woman down the street. 

Dream was surprised by the amount of money they had made. Rumor said the fur trade wasn’t like it was thirty years ago, but due to the war the number of traders were down, and Europe still wanted their furs. He and George were more than happy to supply them. 

“We should stay in an inn tonight.” George says, breaking Dream from his thoughts. He scoops the coins back into the pouch. “We’ve got more than enough.” 

“Remember the last time we stayed in an inn?” 

George grimaces at the memory. “That was in New York and you’re not a spy anymore.” 

“So it won’t be exactly like old times.” Dream jokes, earning a sharp glare as George stands up, double checking he got every last coin back in the bag. 

“Don’t you think it would be nice to sleep in a bed?” George says as they step out of the alleyway and blend into the crowd, which consisted primarily of frontiersmen and the occasional redcoat. The buildings were small and low, made of brick and wood. The streets were made of packed dirt instead of cobblestone, and the forest seemed to be itching to take over the town. Pine trees pushed their way into the streets, stubbornly clinging to the once untouched land. 

Dream supposes it would be nice to sleep in a bed, even better to sleep somewhere sheltered from the cold, with a solid four walls and a fireplace. They have the money to do it, even if only for a night. He thinks that at the very least George deserves it. 

“Yes, it would be nice.” He agrees. 

Which is how they found themselves inside a cramped room, with flickering candles on the walls and two thin wooden beds with straw mattresses. One window faces the street, and it was odd to hear the rush and cram of people again, after months of falling asleep to silence. If Dream thought about it too much it was overwhelming- the sheer inexhaustibility of human life. 

The room smells of cut pine and burning and candles. The moment they step inside George collapses onto one of the beds with a sigh. 

Dream laughs at him. “Are you that debilitated?” 

“Shut up.” George grumbles, voice muffled by a pillow. 

Dream sits beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He tugs off his boots and groans at the relief. 

George laughs. “Whose dramatic now?” 

“Shut up.” Dream mumbles, wiggling his foot. “I had to carry all the furs.” 

“I carried some.” George protests, still laying facedown. Dream reaches up to ruffle his hair and George swats him away half-heartedly. Dream knows he has about ten minutes before George is completely asleep. 

Outside it is night, the sky dark as spilt ink. It is odd not to be amongst the darkness, clinging to the warmth and light of a fire. Leaning into each other like they will disappear otherwise. 

Dream stands and tugs his hair loose popping his shoulders. He surveys the rest of the room and begins organizing their things. He lays their things on the spare bed, taking careful inventory of their new belongings from the market. George watches him lazily through tired eyes. 

Dream isn’t sure how long he spends going through both of their packs, thinking about what they will still need to buy before returning to the wilderness tomorrow. The candles are low by the time he finally packs everything away, careful and neat. When he turns around, George is sound asleep on the bed. His shoes are still on his feet, and he’d never even taken off his coat.

“George.” He says gently, shaking his shoulder. “George.” 

He groans, turning away. Dream sighs, shaking his shoulder more roughly. “C’mon, George. You gotta get up.” 

“No.” He grumbles, stubborn as ever. He leans into Dream’s hand, and Dream isn’t sure if it is conscious or not. 

“At least help me get your coat off.” He urges tiredly. 

With another long groan and a monumental effort, George sits up. Dream helps him out of his coat and vest, carefully removing each button. Dream leans down, unwraps the garters from his shoes, his eyes never leaving George’s even as he tugs the stockings from his feet. The air is charged and heavy. The candles flicker. 

In turn, George helps Dream do the same, his hands across skimming his broad shoulders as he removes his coat. Dream shivers when he pushes out each button of his vest, until he is in only a hunting shirt. 

“George.” He mumbles, his mind empty of all else. He loves his name, loves the lull of peace it brings to him. Saying his George’s name often feels like a ritual for a religion he is just learning. 

“Shhh.” George whispers, lazily pressing a kiss under Dream’s jaw. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He thinks he should be used to this, but even now George is still able to unravel him with only a few words and well-placed gestures. He sighs longingly, George smiling against his jaw. One of the candles flickers out. 

George continues downward. “Not here.” Dream says, voice thick. 

George releases a shaky breath against his neck and Dream glances heavenward for a moment. “I know.” 

Dream reaches up, careful to avoid George’s neck as he reaches into his hair. George didn’t do well with things against his neck. Dream just kisses him instead, the way George deserves to be kissed. 

The other candle flickers out quietly, tossing the room into darkness. Their kisses are slow, as if they have all the time in the world. Dream supposes they do, and his stomach flutters as George tugs him closer in the darkness. Dream sighs against him and builds a chapel in his heart for George. 

They taper out listlessly, George’s head falling onto Dream’s chest where they lay. He runs his fingers through George’s hair, eyes unfocused against the ceiling. Within minutes George is asleep, and Dream has always sort of envied his ability to fall asleep quickly. 

Dream on the other hand, has never been good at that. He traces patterns in the ceiling with his eyes, and his thoughts slough away as George curls closer towards him. He thinks of all the steps that have brought him towards the movement, the cascade of blood on his hands. If he squints, he thinks he can still see it, still clinging to his fingernails. 

He rubs his hand up and down George’s shoulder, the fabric rough beneath his palm. His breath catches in his throat. He would travel the globe for George, cross the Atlantic in a cramped ship that is torn apart in storms. He would cross the Silk Road and find what lies at the end, he would fell entire cities for George, burn himself raw. He thinks about how lucky he is. Thinks about it all night, until George is shifting in his arms. His face is scrunched in displeasure, and Dream tenses. His heart stops. Starts again. 

Dream reaches down to smooth out the lines of George’s face, and he wonders if George can hear the steady brag of his heart. But George only frowns deeper, shifts uncomfortably against Dream. He tries not to startle, not to panic. George is only dreaming. 

But then he is thrashing out violently with a yelp, his elbow hitting Dream squarely in the nose. He reels back, blinking past tears as he holds his nose with one hand and uses his other to try and wake George. 

“George.” He says, then louder when he continues to talk under his breath, something about loyalists and patriots and too much gunpowder. “George!” 

He grabs his wrists when George’s eyes fly open, his hands already moving to punch Dream in the face before he goes deathly still. His two-toned eyes are wide, and he searches Dream’s face for a moment, as though he’s forgotten who he is. Something snaps in Dream’s chest, bleeds like an old wound. 

Dream releases his wrists slowly, the only sound between them is George’s stuttering breaths and Dream’s pounding heart. After a moment, George reaches out cautiously, as though Dream will flinch again. His hand traces over the scar cut across his nose, then down to swipe away the blood he finds. 

George frowns, his voice tender. “Did I do this?” 

Dream rubs at the blood, ignoring the question. “What were you dreaming about?” 

“Many things.” He admits, laying down once more on Dream’s broad chest. His hand scrunches in the fabric of Dream’s shirt. “First it was of London, and the parish. But then it was of the ship to America, and how small it felt in the great churning sea. Then I was falling through ice, and you were on the gallows, and then it was Bunker Hill and there was a man on my bayonet.” He rubs his face. “It haunts me. The days are like stones on my shoulders, like the weight of life.” 

Dream runs his hands through his hair, and it is horribly reminiscent of the first time he caught George having a nightmare. Perhaps some things don’t change. The world was not merciful. 

“You haven’t had a night like that in a while.” Dream mumbles, barely above a whisper. He kisses the top of George’s head. 

“Yeah.” He agrees. “Maybe it’s being in a bed again. I don’t know. Usually you’re enough to keep the nightmares at bay.” 

Dream makes some noise in the back of his throat that’s halfway between shock and love. George laughs at him gently, and the love swells in his chest.

Moments pass. Outside, the street is quiet. “Do you think about it?” George whispers. “All the things which have happened?” 

He thinks of the blood under his fingernails, the boom of a cannon, a rabbit with a hole in it’s stomach. “Yes.” 

“Is that why you don’t sleep?” 

“I have trouble falling asleep. Just as you have trouble staying asleep.” He explains as George shifts. “The weight of it.” 

George doesn't say anything. He understands. 

  
**4.**

  
Dream has never been fond of summer. It was far too hot, the heat dripping off skin like sweat. The muggish New England heat settles like oil over water, thick and permanent. Even a strong breeze is not enough to chase it back. The heat stays, stubborn as a bull. 

However, if this had been his first spring with George, it is also their first summer. The first summer of many, but Dream delights in the way George unravels like a spool of thread in the summer sun. His walls lower, his inhibitions melt away like ice on pavement. The unbearable July heat is the only explanation for where they find themselves now, wearing hardly anything and ducking their heads in a river. George had rattled off the name of it before they climbed in, but Dream was soon to forget it. He doubts he was ever really paying attention, not when George jumps on his back and pulls him under the cold water, laughing giddily. 

Dream surfaces, pushing his long hair back from his face, sparing George a sharp glare that doesn't last long before it dissolves into a smile. 

They are both filthy from months of travel and living in the wilderness. Dream doubts he will ever pry the dirt from under his nails, or untangle all the knots in his hair. Both of their hands were rough and calloused, and Dream could feel the roughness of George’s once soft hands when his fingers glide over Dream’s exposed forearm beneath the water, gone as soon as they were there. 

Dream ducks his head under again, the cold water sliding across him. It pronounces his movements, slows him like a bug in an amber. He sticks his hand out of the water, marveling in the droplets that cling to his skin, and those which slide off and return to the river. They are shaded by thick, green trees looming over the river. The sun shines down on them in slants, dappling the water with spots of sunlight. 

George reaches over and takes his hand, holding his wrist in pale hands. He stays there for a moment, and Dream isn’t sure what he is going to do, but eventually he simply drops it, and Dream’s hand splashes back into the river. 

“You should get cleaned up.” Dream says slowly. A bird calls from above them, and a mosquito circles overhead. Dream swats it away. 

“So should you.” George replies, reaching towards their things on the bank and rifling through his own bag. Dream attempts to comb his hair out with his fingers as George unwraps a thin bar of yellow soap from a washcloth.

“Here Dream,” George pulls Dream’s hands away from his scalp. “I’ll do it.” 

“George.” 

He runs the soap over his hands, then reaches into Dream’s hair and works through the knots. Dream’s eyes flutter shut as George works, doing his best without a comb and only a bar of soap. 

“You should wear it down.” George mutters, face creased in concentration. The sunlight falls gently over his face. George tugs gently as a knot comes loose. 

“Mhm.” Dream mumbles, not really thinking about much of anything except for the feeling of George’s hands in his hair. He drags his fingers over his scalp and Dream sighs, leaning his head back. George kisses the column of his throat, his fingers prying apart the final knot. He drags his hand through the cleaned hair, pulling slightly. 

“Dream.” 

“Hmm?” 

Then the bar of soap is being placed in his hands, and without a word Dream is running it through his wet hands until they’re slick with it. He takes his time running the thin bar over George’s shoulders, his arms. George sits up, lets him trail the soap down his leg, over his chest. Neither says a word during it, but Dream is certain George can feel his pounding pulse through his hands. He wonders if the intimacy is choking him just as it is him, if it’s tearing him apart just the same. The slow spit of love between them burns. 

He thinks they should meet in another life. Dream would find him across centuries. The trickle of time like sand in an hourglass means nothing. 

Dream leans forward, water dripping off his chest, and kisses him. The great churning in his gut, the ocean inside him, settles like silt at the bottom of a pond. George breaks the kiss, reaches out and takes Dream’s hand, presses his lips to it. It is like hot wax against his skin. He wants it to scar, wants all the places where George touches him to scar. His entire body would be covered in scars, but he would not mind. He would admire them, instead of shirking away from every mirror. 

He drops the soap into George’s hands. “George.” 

“I’m right here.” George’s hands glide over his chest and shoulders, slick with soap. It bubbles against his freckled skin. Dream sighs again when George scrubs at a spot on his stomach. 

Dream has been flayed open, laid bare. It scares him in a way, being known inside and out by another person. George has seen him at his ugliest- egotistical, angry, manipulative, stubborn. He has seen the good and the bad and the greys of Dream, took it all and decided that Dream was someone who he loved, despite the grey. 

“Lift your leg for me?” George asks and Dream does so without question. George scrubs off the dirt, inside and out. The sun moves across the sky, dragging heat and time with it. Dream does not notice, thinks only of how their bodies fit together like two broken pieces. 

  
“I’m going to check the traps.” George says, a handful of days later. The summer rains have come, drenching the woods with the fury of old gods. The rains turn the world green, deep as pine. 

“I’ll come with you.” Dream replies, already standing up. 

George looks at him as he adjusts his gloves. “You don’t need to do that, Dream.” 

“I know. But I want to.” He wipes the dirt off his pants and slings a bag over his shoulder. All of their things were soaked from the rain, and Dream wouldn’t be surprised if neither of them slept that night. 

George rolls his eyes. “I hope the rain hasn’t messed with the traps.” 

Dream shrugs and glances at the patch of grey sky between tree tops. “Perhaps.” 

They set off together, and Dream takes note of their direction and angle. Both of them are careful when they tread over patches of mud. George reaches for Dream’s hand, and Dream takes his. When George glances at him, Dream only smiles. 

The rain picks up as they go, and George crouches down to check one of their dead-fall traps. It had been knocked over, but otherwise empty. With a sigh, Dream helps him put it back together and they continue on. 

Sometimes, Dream is still surprised by how easily they fall together. They walk through the woods in silence, and for the first time in his life, Dream has not felt the insatiable urge to break it. Around anyone else, he could not stand silence. It made his skin crawl and the seconds stretch out. With George, it’s different. With George he can just be, without feeling the weight of unsaid words and heavy silence. 

The rain splashes against the ground. It falls over their tricorns, but their shape keeps the rain from their faces. The forest smells of turned dirt and wet wood, and the heady scent of angry clouds and rain. He thinks about how grateful he would have been for this sort of rain when he was a farmer. 

He can’t believe he sat still for long enough to be a farmer. Now him and George are always moving, always waking up in a new place. 

George untangles his hand from Dream’s to check the last trap. He leans down, his hands brushing through the wet foliage. Neither of them knew exactly where it was because they had buried it under a layer of twigs and leaves, but the fact that they could not immediately see an animal told them that it too, was likely empty. 

A bluebird flits overhead, temporarily stealing Dream’s attention from George. The rain keeps the bird in place, it’s feathers clinging together. Dream reaches down and shakes George’s shoulder. “George look.” 

“Not now, Dream.” George snaps, his face tightened with concentration as he searches for the trap. 

“George, it’s your favorite color-” 

Snap. 

George screams, and it’s like someone has stabbed through Dream’s heart and twisted the knife inside him. Immediately, he is on the ground at George’s side. George is hunched over, his arm held tight to his chest and his face scrunched with pain. 

“George! George?” He yells, voice shaking. The bluebird has flown away. “George, what happened? Can you talk? You’re alright, I’m right here. George? It’s alright, I’ll fix it.” 

He thinks that eventually all he is saying is George’s name, over and over again. It lacks it’s usual tenderness, the usual worship that can be found in his tone. Instead it is simply desperate, tight with fear when he sees dark blood drip to the forest floor. Dream is cold. 

George takes a deep breath and offers his hand to Dream. Dream inhales sharply when he sees what happened. 

Well. They found the trap. 

“Can-” Dream stutters, his hands trembling against George’s shoulders as George holds his injured hand against his chest once more. “Can you walk? We have supplies back at the camp.” 

“We’re gonna have to amputate it.” George mutters, his voice tight with pain. 

“Jesus, George. No we’re not. I can get it off.” 

“I’m gonna get tetanus.”

“No, you’re not.” Dream replies, his voice steadier than he feels. “You’ve already had tetanus, remember? When you were little?” It was a story George had told him a long time ago, about when he was running through the parish without shoes and stepped on a piece of rusty junk on the street. 

“Can you stand for me?” Dream asks in that soft voice reserved for George. 

George takes a moment to collect himself, his breaths harsh and uneven before he nods. Dream helps him stand, and both of them avoid looking at the trap embedded in his left hand. Dream recalls George once telling him that he could write with both hands, because as a kid he’d used his left hand until they forced him to use his right. George told him that when he was alone he still used his left. Dream hopes that that ability will help him now. 

It takes an agonizing amount of time to reach their camp, and when they do Dream sets George down on an old stump. He comes back a few minutes later with their meager set of medical supplies and tries not to think about that time so long ago when their roles were reversed and George was stitching up Dream’s stomach. 

Now, George’s face is pale from blood loss. When Dream reaches for his injured hand, George offers it limply, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance. 

“Do you want something to bite down on?” Dream asks, his fingers hovering over the lever that will release the trap. 

George shakes his head. “Just get it over with.” 

Dream purses his lips and bites down on his cheek as he pushes the lever down. The clamp springs open, and George cries out again. The trap falls to the ground and Dream carefully closes it and tosses it aside. George is gripping his hand, but allows Dream to take it back when he reaches for it. 

Methodically, Dream pours alcohol over it and cleans the wound. It’s deep, almost to the bone. George curses as he cleans it, wiping the blood away. 

“We’ll stitch it later.” Dream says as he wraps it tightly. “I want to give it time for the blood to stop.” 

“God, I’m sick of this always happening.” George curses, his voice still strained. “It’s always me. If you weren’t with me I wouldn’t have made it three weeks.” 

“That’s not true.” Dream snaps, grabbing George’s face. He leaves bloody fingerprints over his cheeks- George’s blood. “You’re smart and resilient and you learn quickly. You would be just fine. Shit like this happens, it could have been me just as much as you.” 

“This shit doesn't happen to you, Dream.” He snaps. “I’m a liability.” 

“Don’t say that.” Dream hisses, wrapping the bandages. “Don’t you dare. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t with me.” 

George looks away, Dream’s red fingerprints blotting his face. 

“I know you don’t believe that, George.” Dream insists, clutching his hand. “I know you don’t.” 

“You don’t know what I think.” 

Dream sighs. “I have spent enough time with you to know what voice you use when you are tired and hurt. I know your voice when you’re lying and when you are happy. I know that now you are in pain and you’re tired. I know you don’t believe it, not deep down.” 

George looks at him with an expression that seems to hold every emotion possible. Dream holds it, bears his gaze into George’s. He kisses the inside of George’s wrist, where the bandages end. 

George flexes his hand, cringing at the pain. Dream presses his own gently against his palm. “Don’t hurt yourself more.” 

George sighs, runs his good hand over his face. “I’m so tired, Dream.” 

“I know.” He whispers, and his own exhaustion is heavy. He cannot remember a time when he was not tired, but spending his days with George made the exhaustion bearable. “Why don’t you rest?” 

He shakes his head. “I don’t sleep well when you aren’t there.” 

“I’m always here.” Dream says, and then George just smiles at him, with that happy-sad sort of smile, the one that makes Dream feel seen. The rain surrounds them, flushes the world green. Dream smiles back. 

  
**5.**

  
Philadelphia is loud. It is boisterous and bright, and everything the capital of a new nation should be. The glass windows shine like freshly minted coins. The new flag, the one with thirteen stars, hangs from every rafter. The people use continental dollars instead of sterlings, and the civilians stand tall and proud without the weight of British rule on their backs. It is a city of liberation, and two months later they are still celebrating. 

George had been doubtful of coming. He worried that Dream would be arrested, or another bounty hunter would find them. But Dream had heard a rumor that the vast majority of the Second Continental Army could be found in Philadelphia, and he was looking for someone. 

It took two weeks of searching before Dream found who he was looking for, two weeks before he heard even a rumor of the man he was looking for. 

“He tried to kill me.” George mutters as they stride through the city. “Twice.” 

“He-” Dream pauses, his expression twisting into one of displeasure. “He didn’t mean it.” 

“Mhm.” George hums dryly. Despite his whining, he hadn’t put up too much of a fight in regards to seeing Sapnap again. Perhaps he understood what it meant to Dream, or maybe he was just tired of living off the land and wanted to be in a city again. Either way, they now found themselves trudging through the streets of Philadelphia, looking for a specific pub. 

“It’s a lot like New York.” Dream says at one point as they sidestep a pile of horse shit. “It even looks the same.” 

“I’d rather not think about New York.” George says, watching a column of patriot soldiers march down the street. 

Dream grimaces and the old wound in his side gives a pang of discomfort. “I think we’re almost there.” 

A few minutes later, he is pushing open a door into a dimly-lit pub. The ceiling is low and held up with wooden beams, and it smells like spilt alcohol. A bartender with a missing eye watches them as they come in, and some of the patrons look up and scowl before returning to their drinks. Dream is surprised by the crowds, considering it is barely one in the afternoon. 

The curtains over the windows are drawn tight, the smallest sliver of sunlight cutting a sliver of light across a wooden table. It is there that he sees Sapnap, hunched over a pint of ale and drafting a letter. 

Dream nudges George’s elbow and follows him towards the table. They step around the other patrons and chairs, George scowling when his shoe steps in a puddle of whiskey. 

Sapnap looks up as they approach, a grin splitting his face as he stands to greet them. He pulls Dream into a hug, clapping him on the back. Dream’s shoulders loosen, the tension for what he’s left behind drifts away. Sapnap has always given the best hugs.

To both their surprise, Sapnap yanks George into a bruising hug. He pats his back roughly, and Dream laughs at the evident shock on George’s face. His shoulders stiffen and his arms hang awkwardly at his sides, but he doesn't pull away from the hug, and Dream has to assume that means something at the least. 

“I didn’t think I would ever lay my eyes on your sorry asses again.” Sapnap laughs as he leans back, looking both of them up and down. He nods at George, “You don’t even look like a soldier anymore! Although you still carry yourself like one, you ought to stop doing that.” 

“Leave him be.” Dream says as they all sit down. Sapnap only shrugs before he flags down a waitress and orders two more drinks. 

“So,” Sapnap says as he leans back dangerously far in his chair. “What brings you two to Philadelphia?” 

“We came to see you, actually.” Dream explains, reaching for the letter Sapnap was writing before his hand is pushed away. 

“That’s top secret Dream, you can’t see it. Anyways, I’m not sure if I believe you.” He turns towards George. “I have a hard time believing this one really wanted to see me.” 

“You did fire a gun at me, and leave me in prison, and ‘accidentally’ almost snap my neck.” 

“Hey, Dream caught you on the last one! Not my fault the lever was right there.” 

George sends him a glare bitter enough that Sapnap’s grin melts off his face and he curls away, awkwardly turning his attention back to Dream. “So, tell me about the frontier?” 

Dream smiles, grateful for the subject change. “You wouldn’t believe it. It’s so quiet out there, even quieter than Long Island. There’s no noise except for the wind between the trees and the occasional bird or wolf.” He speaks quickly, in that rushing way he does when he’s excited. “You rarely run into anyone at all, except for that time we ran into a bounty hunter, that was pretty horrible.” 

Sapnap’s mouth falls open. “You what?” 

Dream just keeps going. “You’ve gotta be really careful. I got bit by some racoon we caught, thankfully I never got rabies or I probably wouldn’t be here right now. Oh, and not that long ago a trap sprung closed on George’s hand,” He reaches for George’s hand and sets it on the table, pointing out the jagged white scar. “That was pretty nasty. We also once found this camp of redcoats and had to talk our way out of it, and George had to disguise his accent. That was way back in February I think. I’m not sure, you sort of loose track of time out there. It’s nice, there’s no rush. It’s just the trees and I and George.” 

Sapnap blinks at him. “That was very poetic of you, Dream.” 

“What about you? What’s been going on with the war?” Dream asks as the waitress sets two glasses in front of him and George. “We’ve been in the dark a bit.” 

“Well, it turns out Valley Forge might have just saved us. Some new French and Prussian generals taught our sorry asses some basic hygiene and now we’re all immune to smallpox and pneumonia and whatever other shit was floating around, and hey! We’ve got Philadelphia back and a proper Navy thanks to the French. The war is as good as done.”

“Did,” Dream’s mouth suddenly feels like cotton, and he takes a sip of the bitter ale. “Did you ever catch smallpox?” 

“Yeah, my inoculation didn’t go real well. Why?” 

Dream glances at George, both of their eyes wide with fear. “Was there a man who sat in the bunk next to you during that? Huge, scary-looking nordic dude?” 

Sapnap frowns, thinking for a moment. “Yeah, yeah there was.” 

“Oh Lord.” George mutters, burrowing his face in his hands. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Sapnap asks, looking between them. 

“That guy was a spy.” Dream groans. “He tried to kill George and I. I have no idea how he found us.” 

“No shit? A spy? I thought the British were too stupid to use spies.” 

Dream snorts. “Perhaps they learned a thing or two from us.” 

Sapnap laughs, taking a long drink. “I suppose so. I’m gonna have to tell Techno about all this.” 

Dream leans forward. “How is he doing? And have you heard from Wilbur?” 

“Techno is fine. I don’t know who the fuck Wilbur is.” Sapnap says. 

George sighs from beside him, running a hand through his hair. Dream turns towards him instantly. “Hey, I’m sure Wilbur is alright. He’s smart.” 

“Yeah.” George mutters, eyes unfocused as he stares through the crack in the curtains and onto the busy street. 

Sapnap glances between them. “You guys act all weird around each other.” 

Dream glares at him and Sapnap puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Just an observation.” 

They finish their drinks not long later, and Dream and Sapnap spend some time catching up while George stares out the window without saying much. Dream promises to meet up with Sapnap again before they leave Philadelphia, and he leaves a few coins on the table before dragging George out. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Dream asks as soon as they’re in the street, away from prying eyes and ears. 

“Maybe.” George mutters, hands stuffed in his pockets. His tricorn is pushed back on his head, his fringe falling into his face. 

Dream sighs. “Is it about Wilbur?” 

“It’s about a lot of things, Dream.” He hisses. “It’s harder to ignore the war here.” 

“Okay.” He says slowly, uncertainty crowding the edges of his words. “Okay. Let’s go back to the inn, yeah?” 

They walk side-by-side through the city, and Dream towers over the crowds. He easily steers them back to the inn they were staying at in the seediest part of the city. Garbage was piled high in the gutters and on the street. Couples walk side by side, a few even lewdly kissing in the street. 

The sun is just beginning to set towards the western horizon as Dream steers George up the stairs and into their room, his movements frantic with worry. 

“George, what happened?” He asks, removing his hat and pressing it to his chest, over his beating heart. Dream’s voice is soft. “George?” 

George sits down heavily on one of the beds, and it creaks under his weight. He pulls off his own hat roughly, runs his hands through his hair. 

“Does it ever get to you?” George asks, not meeting Dream’s eyes. 

Dream frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Sometimes I feel like my life in an interconnected string of mistakes.” He mumbles as Dream sits beside him. “There’s so many people I left behind.” 

“Is this about Wilbur?” 

“Yes. And others.” He looks out the window, which leads only to a brick wall of a neighboring building. “I feel like we left Sapnap. I feel like I abandoned Eret and Wilbur, and in some ways Tommy and Tubbo.” 

Dream’s heart stills in his chest, an old wound flares with pain. Is George slipping between his fingers again because of a mistake Dream made almost two years ago? 

“George, Tommy and Tubbo were not-” 

“I know.” He mutters. George runs a hand down his face tiredly. “God, I know. But they still keep me up at night. My entire life keeps me up at night, Dream. From my childhood, to the moment I joined the army, and stepped onto this Godless fucking continent. I’ve made so many mistakes.” 

Carefully, Dream takes George’s hands in his and is mildly surprised when George allows it. “We’ve all made mistakes, George. Me more so than anyone else.” 

George rubs his face with one of his hands and keeps the other locked in Dream’s grasp. “When does a war end, Dream? It will never be over for us.” 

Oh. Realization settles deep in Dream’s stomach. “George.” 

“I don’t want to drag you down with me, Dream. Into this unassailable sin. We will never have a normal life, we’ve both got blood on our hands and now we’re-” he chokes slightly, lifting their locked hands together before setting them down in defeat. 

“George. George look at me.” Dream insists, and waits until he does. He grabs George’s face, gentle as ever. “We both have mistakes. It comes with this war, with who we are, with the nature of humanity but I- you have to know. You have to know that every mistake I’ve made I have made for you.” 

George looks at him, tears welling in his eyes. Dream’s stomach twists, he’s never been good at seeing George cry. He reaches forward, wipes the tears away. “I would do it again, for you. I would fix them for you, too. And this,” he lifts their clasped hands. “I would die on a pyre for this.”

“Don’t say that.” George mumbles, voice raw. “I cannot bear it.” 

Dream pulls George into his chest, rocks them back and forth on the creaking bed, gentle as a rowboat on the tide. George cries into his shoulder, and sometimes Dream thinks his tears must be stained gold, because there is no way George is fully human. They had borne the cold brunt edge of the turning world for so long that their shoulders ached and their hands were raw. Dream reaches upwards and strokes George’s still short hair as the sun outside sets. 

“I love you.” George says. 

“I know.” He breathes, holding him closer. “I do too.” 

  
**+1.**

  
It is the first snowfall of the year, and instead of spending another gruelling winter in the hinterlands, they return to the city and rent a flat in Philadelphia. Sapnap and Techno help them pick it out, and help out with the money. 

LIke the inn, it is in the seediest part of the city. The streets smell of shit, and there is a brothel across the street. Farmers bring their cows through sometimes, and the scent never quite leaves. A little further down is a tavern, with broken windows and a blood stain near the door. Dream doesn't love it, he thinks that George deserves much better, he deserves the largest mansion in the city and then some. But George doesn't mind, he just seems happy to not have to spend the winter in the wilderness, and to be with Dream. 

Dream knew that the sordid and unsavory surroundings might just save them. It was an area where people would not think twice about two men living together, and even if they did, they would turn a blind eye. To each their own. 

Dream shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps his head down as he walks the street home. This time of year it is already dark, and the only light comes from the windows facing the street. He hurries as snow settles on the ground, drifting lazily from the starless sky. It is odd to think how far he has come, to think how different his life was two years ago. 

“Dream!” Calls one of the women from across the street. “Are you going to come in?” 

He laughs. He knows she doesn't mean it. “You should stop asking!” 

“But it’s fun!” She insists as Dream finally gets the door open. He gives a half-hearted wave before disappearing inside. 

The flat is warm and cramped, and George is sitting near the woodstove waiting for the water to boil. They always boiled the water before using it after both of them had a terrible bout of cholera from the dirty water. Dream grimaces at the memory, even as he bends down to kiss the top of George’s head. 

“What’s the water for?” Dream asks, setting his stuff on the table. 

George sniffs, his nose scrunching. “Coffee.” 

Dream looks outside then back at George. “At this hour?” 

“I thought we could have coffee with supper.” He gestures towards the chopped vegetables on the table and the dried fish. 

Dream laughs and wraps his arms around George’s waist from behind. “You’re so odd, George.” 

“You don’t have to have any coffee.” George moves to remove the water from the stove and pours it through a filter filled with grounds. The water seeps up the grounds, drips into the pot dark with coffee. 

“I never said that.” Dream mumbles petulantly. 

“Fine.” 

“Fine!”

They stand like that for a moment, slowly watching the coffee drip into the pot. Dream kisses the back of George’s neck and he thinks he begins to understand what peace is. 

“We could boil cabbage.” George says after a moment. 

Dream wrinkles his nose. “Boiled cabbage is gross.” 

“That was all we ate two years ago.” George points out, shaking the coffee filter gently. 

“Yes, but we can eat better now.”

George rolls his eyes. “Because we have so much money.” 

“Drowning in it.” Dream agrees, kissing George again and smiling when he laughs. Thanks to the inflation of the continental dollar, most of the money they had was quickly becoming worthless. Neither of them seemed that bent up about it. 

George shakes the filter one last time and pours the pot into two cups. Through the cracked window, the quick and gentle notes of a fiddle wafts on the wind from just down the street. 

George turns around in his arms and presses a mug of black coffee into his hands. Dream takes a sip, rolling his eyes when George grabs it from his hands and steals his own sip. 

“Don’t you have your own?” 

“I gave you the better cup.” 

Dream’s smile is grossly fond, affection dripping from his gaze. George smiles back. “Do you hear that?” Dream asks. 

George’s eyebrows furrow. “The horribly out of tune fiddle?” 

He rolls his eyes and steps back, extending his hand towards George while using his other to lean over and close the curtains. He still keeps the window open a fraction so they can hear, although being on the top floor he isn’t too worried about being seen. “Dance with me?” 

“Dream-” 

He wiggles his hand, his grin sharp and playful. “Come on, George. Step down into the likes of us sinners.” 

“Dream.” He warns again, failing miserably to hide his smile. 

“I’ll let you have my coffee, George.” Dream offers, stretching his fingers out. “Just one dance?” 

George has never been good at saying no to Dream. He takes his hand. 

“Just one dance.” He says as Dream yanks him close. Neither of them know any proper dances, both of them had been raised poor as dirt in wildly different places. But then Dream is grinning, bouncing on his heels in time with the music as George attempts to copy his hops and taps. The dance is obviously meant for more than two people, but it’s the only one Dream knows. By the end of it George is smiling, barely trying to even copy Dream’s movements. 

“Oh, now you’re not even trying!” Dream complains as they lock opposite elbows and skip in a circle before moving apart again. 

“This is stupid.” George laughs as Dream takes his hand again, neither of them moving apart. The quick music from outside melts into something softer, something more formal. It’s fit for a dance neither of them can begin to understand. So Dream just pulls George close to his chest, one hand holding George’s waist, the other gripping his hand. George’s hand rests on his shoulder, and Dream’s stress melts away beneath it. 

Perhaps they understand it. The music, afterall, was not made for their love. 

They sway together, barely moving at all. It reminds Dream of the gentle rocking of a boat on a calm sea. They spin occasionally, reluctant to part at all. They blur into one another. 

“I heard this new theory going around.” Dream says into George’s hair. 

“Mhm.” George replies, clearly not listening but Dream continues anyways. 

“They think that all matter cannot be created.” He explains. 

George glances up at him. “Where does it come from then?” 

“They haven’t explained that, yet. God I suppose. But if all matter cannot be created, then we are made of the same things, are we not?” 

“I think you sound crazy.” George replies. “But keep going.” 

“Well, if we are all made of the same things, then all of my matter belongs to you, just as much as it belongs to me.” 

George looks at him and smiles. “Where on earth did you hear that?” 

Dream shrugs. “Some French idea.” 

“The French are full of good ideas.” George agrees mockingly. 

Dream snorts. “I knew you were still English.” 

George smacks his shoulder, but the blatant smile on his face hides any animosity. Dream just shakes his head fondly and pulls George impossibly closer. Outside, the music softens into something warm and fond. Dream feels as if the sun is glowing in his chest, feels as if he has the whole world in his hands. It doesn't even feel like a burden. 

Dream suffers from an awful problem of thinking too much. It keeps him up into the long hours of the night, and it also keeps him at an arm's length from the world. George’s heartbeat is strong against his own, both of them beating in time with the fiddle and the great churn of the world. They sway together, left and right, occasionally in a circle. They had been torn apart over and over again, and Dream thinks they were likely never supposed to meet. He has never believed in fate, or divine intervention, but someone with more power than himself must have pulled some strings and yanked them together. 

Perhaps it was his own conviction. Sometimes, in Dream’s darker moments, he wonders how he loved George. George, who at their initial meeting had given Dream no reason to like him. An imperialistic, annoying redcoat with no sense for morality, and a blinding, unquestioning devotion to the crown. 

But then George had proved to be anything but that. Perhaps he still would be if it wasn’t for Dream, but Dream cannot find it in himself to blame him. He would likely still be spitting at the foot of every lobsterback he came across if it wasn’t for George. Sometimes he sees the red coat, and before he thinks of hatred, he thinks first of George. He thinks of love. 

He thinks that George deserves infinitely better than him. 

He thinks of their own tenuous morality that has been tested by knives, musketballs, swords, ropes, and ice. He thinks of George’s bleeding hand in his, the white of his bone through the blood. He thinks of feet falling through the gallows, and the shatter of cracking ice, the groan of a boat. 

“Dream?” George asks, his voice far. “Dream?” 

Dream is crying, he realizes. He does that often. George reaches up, runs his hand across the scars on his face, wipes the tears back. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t understand it.” He admits, voice watery. “I don’t understand how you are here with me, of all the people in the world. I don’t understand how we’re not dead, I don’t understand how you love me.” 

Something cracks in George’s face, and Dream can see it. Can see the moment he shatters, even as he leans closer and kisses away the tears. 

“I do not understand it, either.” George admits. “But I understand that I am here with you, and I would not want to be with anyone else. Not for the rest of time itself.” 

Outside, the fiddle continues. It’s music is low and long as the sea. “Our end,” Dream says slowly, “is self made.” 

George smiles and reaches upwards towards Dream’s eyes, and closes them gently. Dream smiles back and sees nothing but George. 

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes:  
> -The European fur trade in North America began in the 1500s, mostly in Canada and reached its peak in the 1800s and dwindled after that when fur went out of style. It was one of the main economic ventures in the new world.  
> -The Proclamation Line was drawn after the seven years war in 1763 along the eastern continental divide. It prohibited anglo-Americans from settling beyond it in the territory acquired from France, leaving it to Indigenous peoples. The line disappeared in 1783 at the end of the war.  
> -The Prussian general I mentioned was a man called Baron Von Steuben. He left Europe when he could no longer improve his military rank because of alleged sodomy charges. However, Washington welcomed him and he basically shaped up the army at Valley Forge and taught them basic hygiene. He was one of the most important men in the war and super interesting to learn about!  
> -Inoculation did occur at Valley Forge! It was a pretty bold experiment on Washington’s part, but essentially they would take the pus from a smallpox scab and smear some of it into a cut on a healthy man. Although some died, it was overall successful. Thank god for modern vaccines.  
> -Back then it was taboo to use your left hand. It was a sign of the devil or something lmao, so that’s why George uses both his right and left.  
> -It’s a bit complicated but Philadelphia was essentially the nation’s capital at that time, because it was where the first and second continental congress convened. It served as a more official and temporary capital in 1790 when DC was being built  
> -Technically the law of conservation of mass that Dream talks about wasn’t proposed until 1785 but I wrote the conversation before looking that up and wanted to keep it in. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, comments and kudos are super appreciated!
> 
> Twitter: backtopluto2  
> Tumblr: pluto-and-back


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